


Signs and Tokens (of Affection Mix)

by inalasahl



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Cuddling & Snuggling, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-04
Updated: 2014-03-04
Packaged: 2018-01-14 13:09:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1267621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inalasahl/pseuds/inalasahl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint and Bruce are forced to deal with the bond they've been ignoring when Clint gets ill while on assignment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Signs and Tokens (of Affection Mix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [a_q](https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_q/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Signatures and Tokens](https://archiveofourown.org/works/790397) by [a_q](https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_q/pseuds/a_q). 



Clint wandered the farmer's market marking the entrances and exits and looking for high places with good lines of sight. SHIELD had gotten good intel that AIM was operating out of the market, but what they were up to and who was involved was still an open question. The temperature seemed a lot warmer than the cloudy sky would suggest and he wiped a bead of sweat from his upper lips and pushed his sleeves up, wishing he was dressed a little cooler. As he looked around, he noticed there was a lot of traffic coming and going from the southeasternmost booth and not much of it seemed to be walking away with "BERIES FRESH" as the sign proclaimed. He turned his head and pretended to cough, so he could cover his mouth. "Natasha, southeast booth selling berries."

"Got it," she said into his ear. "On my way." He was only supposed to be Natasha's back up on this mission. Clint didn't have her interrogation skills, but no one could spot details out of place like him. When Clint looked back there was an omega staring back at him from the booth. Clint turned to the booth next to himself for cover and picked up a sprig of basil, sniffing deeply. His scowled at the overly pungent smell, wondering if it were possible for herbs to go off. He didn't think much of this market. Seemed like everything he had smelled today had been a little over-ripe.

"Good for cooking," said the alpha manning the booth. She smiled down at his mate mark. "Have you ever tried fresh? Your mate will love the difference it makes."

Clint grimaced and pulled his sleeve back down over the mark on his arm. "My mate does the cooking," At least when everyone else is around, Clint thought bitterly. When he doesn't have to be reminded that he'd woken up and found himself tied to a stupid carnie not good for much other than shooting things. A low ache rolled through his abdomen and he fisted a hand to his waist in surprise.

"Progressive, hmmm?" Clint jerked back in surprise as the alpha stroked a hand through his hair. "You smell lovely. I bet your mate likes that."

Clint took a step back from the booth, bumping into the alpha behind him. "Sorry," Clint said.

"Don't worry about it, cutie," the alpha said as he moved to pinch his rear. Clint twisted to avoid the touch and suddenly realized there was an awful lot of people pressing in. He tried to politely elbow his way through the crowd without making the kind of scene that would blow his cover as just another shopper and tip off AIM that agents were around. He made slow progress, as the ache in his gut intensified.

"Clint?" Natasha said in his ear. "What's going on? The foot traffic is changing direction." 

He wanted to go home. He wanted his mate. He wanted — FWEEP, a whistle blew, shrill and pierce.

"What's going on here? You people are blocking the lane. The fire marshal'll close this place down."

"Just trying to get through," Clint said. "No need to stop," he said for Natasha's benefit.

The police officer sniffed the air and frowned. "What's the matter with you coming to a place like this like that? You're old enough to know to plan for your heats."

Clint stared at him in shock, trying to make sense of the words, as he put together the ache he was feeling with his temperature, and the way everything smelled. "Not possible," Clint choked out. "Can't smell me. I'm mated." He held out his arm in proof. Everyone knew that ruts and heats were nature's way of overcoming social divisions to ensure that genetically diverse people touched and found their mates. You stopped putting out the right pheromones to signal availability once you were mated. The only one still attracted to your heat was your mate. Heck, you stopped having heats unless your mate was around to sync their rut with you.

The police officer frowned harder. "Mated or not, you reek, and you're definitely old enough to know the law. Let's go."

Clint caught a flash of red out of the corner of his eye and he shook his head. The last thing this mission needed was for Natasha to fight their way out. Everyone here would remember her face and she'd be useless for completing the mission. "I'll get out of here," he said to both her and the police officer. "Go home."

"Sorry," the officer said. "It's too late for that. You can wait it out in the county tank, at least until they get someone to come pick you up. Don't make me cuff you."

Clint stiffened. "Fine," he said. "I'll go with you to the county tank," he said. He watched Natasha melt back away into the crowd, knowing she'd get him out.

* * *

"Doctor Banner, I have Agent Romanoff on a secure line for you. Would you like to put her on a screen?"

Bruce sat up in bed and reached for his glasses. "Audio's fine, JARVIS. Unless Natasha requests visual." Bruce didn't have a lot of body modesty these days, but conversing in his boxers wasn't the same as searching for a suit of clothes after a hulk-out.

"Natasha?"

"Bruce, it's Clint. He needs your help."

Immediately, Bruce climbed out of bed and began putting clothes on. There wasn't much Bruce could usually do to make things up to Clint for taking away his chance at mating with someone decent, other than staying away from him. It had to be serious if Natasha was calling _him._ "Tell me what to do," Bruce said.

* * *

Bruce paused outside of the county detainment facility and tried not to think about how much it looked like a secure military base, a big box of a building, surrounded by a chain link fence with barbed wire and cameras everywhere. If Clint was reacting as Natasha thought, the only thing that would help him would be his mate. Nobody else could do this.

He huddled deeper into his coat and strode into the building, pretending a confidence he didn't feel as he asked for "Clark Beckett." The elderly omega behind the counter glared at him. "So you're his mate," she said. "ID?" she snapped.

Bruce handed over his cover ID and hoped whoever forged documents for SHIELD really did know his or her business, as the omega examined it scrupulously, even shining a black light over it to view the invisible ink seals. "When was the last time you saw your husband?"

"Three days ago," Bruce answered truthfully. Clint had stopped by his floor to tell him that SHIELD was sending him on a mission. The omega frowned at his answer, but handed his ID back with a sigh, reluctantly satisfied.

"Mr. Beckett, your husband was taken into custody on suspicion of being publicly enticing. On arriving at our facility, a thorough examination was conducted." Bruce gripped the counter hard at that and the alpha sneered at him. "Your husband had all the symptoms of heat, but none of the signs. As he also presented with a mate mark, the doctor has diagnosed him with Bond Rejection Syndrome, the body's attempt to seek out a different mate by rejecting the bond to the current one." Bruce pushed his glasses up and took the report she pushed toward him. Although he'd never seen a case of it, he knew BRS was a serious medical condition that left unchecked could lead to high blood pressure, stroke, coma or even death. "Although the causes of BRS have not been proven," the omega continued, "there is cause for belief in a correlation with either estrangement or abuse. You stated that you saw the other Mr. Beckett only three days ago?"

Bruce flushed, as he realized what they must think and hunched his shoulders, realizing further that they weren't that far off of the mark. He _was_ dangerous to Clint, just not in the way they thought. No wonder Clint was rejecting him. "Yes," he said quietly. Bruce was a private person by nature, but he realized it wouldn't do Clint and himself any favors to obscure the truth. "Our bonding was … unexpected. We go our separate ways."

"You understand I can't take your word for it," she replied. "For this reason, state law states that we must interview the omega once the heat is over and we can speak to him without duress to determine whether an attempt to repair the bond or chemical severing is in his best interest."

The one thing Clint had needed him for, Bruce thought. The one time Bruce had had a chance to act as his mate by getting him out of this place, and he was going to fail. "Do I just come back tomorrow then or will you call me?" he asked.

"Your mate is in heat," she hissed. "You are not going to leave him alone to deal with it. We have rooms that can accommodate couples if you don't want to take him with you."

Bruce sat up straight at that. "You mean you expect me to —" He heard immediately the low, growly tone in his voice and closed his eyes, breathing softly. "Here?" he tried again, slowly and quietly. His stomach dropped as he thought of something else. "This is your policy? How many people have you put in a room alone with their abusers?"

"Twenty years ago, there wasn't even an interview," she snapped. "We do what we can within the law." She fiddled with her pen. "Besides, he wouldn't accept anyone else right now anyway, and prolonged skin-to-skin contact is the fastest cure for BRS."

* * *

Clint lay naked on a large mattress on the floor, his breath coming in short little hitching moans as he writhed on the mattress seemingly unable to get comfortable.

Bruce waited until he knew the door closed firmly behind him, trying to put out of his mind the fact that it had an observation window and that someone could peer in at any moment. "Clint?"

Clint sat up immediately. "Bruce. Didn't think you'd come," he said. His cock bobbed, angry and red, and Bruce had a hard time not staring at it. His own body was starting to react to Clint's scent and he had to remind himself firmly that he was here to help, not to take advantage. He was startled when Clint wrapped his arms around him. "Smell good," Clint said. "Wanna fuck?"

Bruce swallowed hard, ashamed of how badly he wanted to say yes, even knowing that Clint had never shown the slightest sign before of wanting that from Bruce. "I came here to take you home," he said instead, daring enough to give Clint a pat on the shoulder. "But you need to get dressed again." He picked up the clothing Clint had cast off onto the floor and tried to be as gentle as he could as he helped Clint into it, knowing his skin would be over-sensitive to stimulation at this point.

Clint seemed to deflate. "You don't wanna?" Clint stepped away and shrugged his shirt on, then wrapped his arms around himself protectively. "No, you never wanna. No matter how much I wish you would."

Just because it sounded as if Clint was sexually attracted to him didn't mean it was true, but Bruce couldn't help reaching out then to pull Clint into his arms and kiss his face. He didn't doubt that Clint was perfect for him, after all. "I never don't want you," he said. Clint stuck out his neck and Bruce instinctively caressed the back of it, smiling as Clint shuddered and moaned. "Let me take you home."

* * *

They left the facility with a clutch of pamphlets with titles like "Nurturing Your Bond," and "Take Time to Spend Time Together," and a couple more pressed on Clint with titles like "When Love Hurts" that he was supposed to read in preparation for his interview in two days, though he couldn't think about that now, wouldn't need to knowing that "Clark Beckett" was unlikely to keep that appointment. All he could really think about was about how Bruce smelled, delicious and brave in a way that made him want to rub himself all over. But underneath all of those scents was also the slight tang of misery. As much as Clint could feel his instincts pushing him to ignore it and climb into Bruce's lap, he had just as many instincts pushing him to do what he could to make his mate feel more comfortable, and he couldn't ignore the way Bruce was scrunched over as far as possible to other side of the cab. Clint leaned his head against the cool window, trying not to disturb Bruce, trying not to remember the soft way Bruce had asked as they walked out of the facility, "If you wanted to get the chemical severing …" before trailing off. Wasn't as if he hadn't already had several months of practice ignoring the way his body kept telling him that he belonged with Bruce and they needed to stick together, even if the false heat made the feelings more intense. Clint pressed his knees together and closed his eyes. He could be grateful that at least Bruce was with him for now. With Bruce's scent surrounding him, he could imagine that ….

Clint startled as he felt a light press on his hand and opened his eyes. "Sorry," Bruce said, starting to draw back. "It's just. They said. Skin-to-skin contact is supposed to help, but I can …"

"No," Clint said. "Don't stop."

Bruce's mouth quirked up in that self-conscious way of smiling he had, and he started to put his arm around Clint. "Oh, hey," he said, reaching into his bag. "I almost forgot. I brought you this," he said. He handed Clint an accessories pouch with nocks, sights and other odds and ends. "I figured you'd feel better if you had something, and Natasha said they'd confiscate your bow and arrow when you got scooped up."

"Thanks," Clint said and fingered through the pouch as Bruce finished slinging an arm around him. Several of his favorites were in it, and it couldn't be a coincidence, knowing the disarray he'd left his equipment in, at least to anyone who didn't know his system. He didn't know why Bruce was being so nice to him, and at the moment he didn't care. He clutched his Whisker Biscuit in his hand and leaned back against Bruce, slipping down to bury his face near Bruce's armpit. Maybe Bruce was starting to forgive him.

It was all Clint's fault, after all. He honestly hadn't realized that he and Bruce had never touched and it seemed the most perfectly natural thing in the world to ask Hulk for a hand up, all until their skin had met and a searing pain had streaked across his wrist, and the Hulk had roared and shrieked and bounded several miles away and it was hours later before they could pick up Bruce, shivering and drenched after waking up in a river.

_Wordlessly, Tony handed Bruce his glasses. "Thanks," Bruce said with a smile. He put his glasses back on and peered up at the Avengers surrounding him. The smile on his face died. "Did I … kill someone?"_

_Steve stepped forward. "Bruce. Your arm."_

_Bruce looked down. He licked his finger before tracing the purple arrow that had appeared as if he thought it might be some prank. Clint watched as his face lost all color. Bruce groped toward him. Clint held his arm out obligingly, so Bruce could rip off his bracer, revealing a newly emblazoned radiation trefoil in green. "Oh, God," Bruce said. "_ Clint. _I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."_

_Clint pulled his arm back and refastened his bracer. Clint had always wondered what it would be like to find his mate. Now he knew. Pure devastation and horror etched Bruce's face. It took a couple of swallows to make his voice work. "Nothing to be sorry for, Doc," he said. "You didn't kill anyone." He spun on his heel and left to go collect his arrows while there was still light. The sky seemed darker already._

* * *

They had the Tower to themselves when they finally got back with Thor in Asgard, Tony in Malibu and Cap gone to replace Clint as Natasha's back-up on the mission. Clint half-expected Bruce to dump him the elevator entrance to his floor and melt away, not to be heard or seen again until there were a couple of more Avengers around to act as a buffer, but instead Bruce seemed not to want to leave, hovering more in that first hour than in all the months previous.

"How are you feeling?" Bruce asked. "Can I get you anything? Something to eat maybe? What do you think?"

"I wanna knot," Clint said baldly, pulling at his waistband.

"That's not going to happen today," Bruce said, and Clint was delighted that his voice at least quavered. Clint nodded, a bit jerkily. He hadn't expected much, but it still hurt to have complete strangers throwing themselves at him while his own mate could barely look him in the eye. "I could leave you alone while you … take care of business," Bruce said.

Clint bit back the plea that tried to take shape in his mouth and went for the logic that would appeal to a guy like Bruce instead. "You said they said we should have skin contact?" Bruce nodded. "So, do we thumb wrestle or what?" he joked.

Bruce ran his hand through his curls and spoke to Clint's belt or maybe his feet. "We should probably take off our shirts and lay down together," he said. "But you don't have to do anything you don't — are you sure you wouldn't rather eat something? I could make you omelet or whatever you'd like."

"Sure as sure," Clint replied and impatiently tugged Bruce to the bedroom.

* * *

"Tony was telling me you might have some ideas for arrows with chemical cores," Bruce said going for nonchalant, as he lay half on top of Clint, chests pressed together. "If you tell me what you were thinking of, I could try to figure it out in my lab." He raised his head. "I'm not crushing you, am I?" 

"Naw," Clint drawled, enjoying the way the ache is his abdomen had settled into a gentle rolling lassitude that felt more like afterglow than anticipation. The way they were lying together was weird, but intimate. Clint could feel the air on his face every time Bruce spoke, could feel every shift and sigh of Bruce's body, including the way he began to harden against Clint's leg before adjusting his body, so their waists were no longer pressed together.

Clint didn't get it. He turned his head away from Bruce and stared at the wall. "What do I do?" he said in a low voice.

"What?" Bruce asked. Clint's voice was muffled and hard to hear.

"What do I do, Bruce?" Clint asked. His fingers twitched at the bedsheets, plucking an imaginary bowstring. "What do I do that sends everyone away?"

"What?" Bruce asked again, louder and with every appearance of disbelief. "You don't do anything, Clint." He gave Clint a quick reassuring stroke along the back of his neck. "You're perfect," he said. 

"Then why won't you stay? Why can't I find a way to keep you?" He turned his head back and clenched his fists against the small of Bruce's back, pinning them together. "I know you want me. And you must care a little to bring me things and to do this," he waved his head over the two of them. "Just tell me what I have to do. I want to keep you. I keep thinking that it's like shooting, you know. Don't try to hold the pin steady at one tiny spot on the target. Let it float. Drift it around in small overlapping circles and your fingers will know when it's time to squeeze. But I've been floating around you for months, and it makes no difference."

Bruce lowered his head. "I want to keep you, too," he murmured.

* * *

Bruce took a deep breath and tried to compose himself. Clint's skin didn't feel so hot to the touch anymore, and though Bruce could tell he was still erect, Clint seemed more himself and less caught up in the heat he'd been feeling before. The months of giving him space seemed foolish in retrospect, if they could lie there so companionably, seemed more like avoidance. It was foolish to keep avoiding the subject, if there was a chance, the smallest chance, that Clint might want the same things Bruce did.

"What does it say in my SHIELD file about my father?"

"He was a scientist. Like you."

Bruce took a deep breath and then another. His wondered if his eyes were green. Clint rubbed his thumb over Bruce's hand and let him breathe through it while he waited. "Yes," Bruce said finally. "I'm … a lot like him." He buried his face in Clint's neck. "He killed my mom. I … saw." His arms grew thick and shot through with chartreuse, but Clint showed no fear as he rubbed his nose in Bruce's hair. Bruce breathed and breathed and breathed, and his arms became his again. "I don't want to hurt you," he said finally.

"Then stop trying to leave me," Clint said.

Bruce lifted his head up and traced the mark on his fore wrist with his thumb. "You deserve so much better."

Clint twisted underneath him, rolling them a bit until he could rest his cheek against Bruce's. Bruce wondered what he was thinking. "So did you," Clint replied. Clint's voice was faraway and shadowed. "So did I," he whispered. Bruce could see it, hidden between the lines of the things he knew, the medical history of a young child with a lot of broken bones that stopped abruptly when Clint's parents died, the lack of a connection that continued on into foster care so that Clint ran away, a little boy rejected and rejected until he found rejection so normal that he assumed he was somehow at fault when Bruce couldn't get past his own issues enough to show him how much the bond meant to him.

"So you did," Bruce confirmed and was rewarded when Clint smiled at him.

"You, Bruce. You're the better," Clint said. "You're not that kind of alpha."

"And what kind of alpha am I when the other guy shows up?" Bruce asked. 

"Bruce," Clint chided. "You're not your father," Clint said and kissed him. Bruce gave in, kissing back, taking Clint's mouth like a promise, needing this as much as Clint did. There were other ways to protect Clint than pushing him away, and Bruce would find them, every last one. He was a genius, after all. 

The End

**Author's Note:**

> Rated for nudity, language, and relationships under the influence of biological factors, as well as mentions of child abuse and domestic violence.


End file.
